


White Bears

by blasted_heath



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Storytelling, when you regret that party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 06:06:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17401442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasted_heath/pseuds/blasted_heath
Summary: A stand-alone mini-fic.James will always be the life of the party, but he may or may not regret it.





	White Bears

“So you’re planning to sleep all day, is it?” Francis’s far-too-cheerful voice drifted across the room, followed by the click of the door behind him. James flinched at the noise.

 

James didn’t open his eyes, but felt the bed sink sideways as the other man sat down on the edge and leaned over to kiss his forehead. He growled something that he meant as, “let me alone,” but it came out wordless. He rolled over to get away, shoving his face into the pillow and contemplating pulling the covers over his head. This only made the room start swaying, however, and he had to scramble onto his back, again, before the feeling would overtake him.

 

Arranging his face into the most irritated expression he could muster, he glared up at Francis through squinting eyes. It took a moment to focus, but the damned man was definitely grinning.

 

“How are you feeling?” He asked, in a tone that was far too amused for such a question.

 

“Damn you, Francis. I can sleep as long as I like. Now go away.”

 

Francis had a hand to either side of him now, palms down in the covers, and was leaning over him. “Get up, James.”

 

He closed his eyes again and tried to sink his head as low into the pillows as possible. “Make me,” he complained.

 

It was the wrong thing to say, he considered almost immediately, as he felt a hand pressing on his chest and Francis kissed his shoulder at the base of his neck. His head snapped to the side involuntarily. “ _Jesus_ , don’t make me move like that!”

 

“Get up,” Francis repeated, still smiling, but thankfully quieter this time.

 

“Damn you,” he replied again.

 

With difficulty he hauled himself upright and began the effort of pulling on his trousers. This was far more a chore than it had any right to be, he grumbled to himself, considering he was trying to do it without moving his neck at all. It took all the decency he had to not collapse back on the bed and _order_ Francis out of the room with whatever semblance of his usual captain’s authority he could summon.

 

Giving up on dressing any further, he managed the five steps it took to reach the fireplace, and flung himself into the armchair there. Francis was leaning against the wall, regarding him with apparent interest.

 

James ran a hand through his hair to push it back from his face, the open cuff of his shirt sleeve falling down about his forearm. “Happy now?” He asked, through gritted teeth. He crushed his head into the corner of the chair’s wing, trying to find a way to stretch the muscles in his neck without wanting to lose consciousness.

 

“Quite,” Francis replied, still against the wall and still wearing the same expression.

 

“I am never doing that again. Don’t _ever_ let me do that again.”

 

“What? Attend an Admiralty function? Or spend the evening regaling people with a story about how you fought off a white bear?”

 

James groaned and ran a hand over his eyes before closing them again. “Oh no…did I?”

 

“Fight a bear? Personally, as I heard it. In single combat with the butt of a rifle. Sent the thing trotting obediently away in shame for such a callous affront to Her Majesty’s Navy. Only regretted you hadn’t shot the beast and had your portrait done like Ross.”

 

James laughed under his breath, and opened one eye. “Did I really? Probably serves the man right for harping on about the fearsome penguins of Antarctica. Destroyed his boots, indeed.” He closed his eye again.

 

“Regular Nelson, you are.” Francis left his position by the wall, and balancing himself on the arm of the chair, began running his fingers through the back of James’s hair. He was barely using any pressure, but James could _hear_ the knots in his neck crunching under the touch.

 

“Hmm. Is that a reference to the bear or the brandy?”

 

“Both, if you like. Not so young as you once were, are you?” He brushed his unoccupied thumb along the lines by James’s eye.

 

James grabbed at the wrist of the offending hand, but couldn’t find the energy to pull it away. “Don’t taunt me, Francis.”

 

Francis laughed. “Very well, then,” he said, and kissed James’s hand where it had become intertwined with his own instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://collections.rmg.co.uk/collections/objects/155287.html) ridiculous early-19th century print of Horatio Nelson as a young man, fighting a polar bear in a dubious but rather popular anecdote from the Phipps Arctic expedition of 1773. We all know that James would have loved that story. 
> 
> I don't know how much James Ross complained about penguins in company, but he did write in his account of the 1839-43 Antarctic expedition that he and Crozier had to wade through a veritable sea of penguins, which "attack[ed] us vigorously as we waded through their ranks, and peck[ed] at us with their sharp beaks." It just made me crack up :)


End file.
